The Ex-Girlfriend Agreement (Fauxmance Files #2)

Chapter 1

ONE

Brooke

The presentation slides glow on my laptop screen, but the numbers have started to blur after six straight hours of staring at them. I massage my temples, feeling the beginnings of a tension headache forming right where my designer glasses press against my skin. Another successful pitch almost ready, another chance to prove I belong in this glass and steel Manhattan high-rise instead of back home where everyone thinks I'm still the same Brooke who left with stars in her eyes and a man on her arm.

"Callahan, you're killing it with those projections." My boss, Miranda, leans against my cubicle wall, coffee in hand, blazer perfectly pressed despite it being almost seven in the evening. "The Hendricks account is practically in the bag."

I flash her my practiced professional smile, the one that shows just enough teeth to seem genuine without being overeager. "Just fine-tuning the third-quarter projections. Their CFO is a numbers guy."

"That's why you're my star." She taps my desk with manicured nails. "Don't stay too late. Even marketing specialists need sleep."

As she clicks away on her ridiculous heels, I turn back to my screen, pride warming my chest. This is what I've built for myself in the two years since I left Colorado. Since I left Dean. A life of deadlines and promotions and respect. A life that makes sense.

My phone vibrates against my desk, the screen lighting up with "Mom" and a photo of her holding a freshly baked pie from last Thanksgiving. I hesitate, letting it ring twice more before picking up.

"Hey, Mom."

"Brookie! There you are. I was starting to worry you'd forgotten about your poor mother." Her voice carries that familiar mix of warmth and gentle guilt that only mothers can perfect.

"Just working late." I cradle the phone between my ear and shoulder, still typing. "Taylor's wedding preparations keeping you busy?"

"Oh, honey, you have no idea. Your sister is a beautiful bride but a terrible planner. Thank goodness for wedding coordinators, or I'd be gray as your father by now."

I laugh, relaxing into the conversation. It's easy to slip into the rhythm of home, even from two thousand miles away. "I'm sure it'll be perfect. Just a few more weeks, right?"

"Eighteen days, not that anyone's counting." She sighs. "That's actually why I'm calling. The coordinator needs to finalize the seating chart and meal preferences."

"Chicken for me, please. Or fish. Whatever's easier."

"And for Dean? Is he still doing that no-carb thing he was so serious about last summer?"

My fingers freeze over the keyboard. The air in my lungs solidifies. Dean? Last summer? We were already broken up last summer, but my mother doesn't know that. No one in my family knows that.

"Brooke? Are you still there?"

My mouth opens and closes like a fish. I take a quick breath. "Dean? Oh, um, he's…he eats everything these days." My voice sounds foreign to my own ears, high and stretched.

"Well, I need something specific for his place card. And you're still bringing him to Taylor's wedding, right? Your father's counting on him to help with the groomsmen. You know how he gets around Taylor's fiancé's friends."

The room tilts slightly. Dean. My ex. The man I haven't seen in two years. The man whose gray eyes still haunt my dreams sometimes, whose laugh I occasionally think I hear in crowded New York streets.

Oh crap.

"Brookie? You two are still coming together, aren't you?"

The truth hovers on my tongue. Mom, Dean and I broke up two years ago. I've been lying to you all this time because I couldn't bear to hear the disappointment in your voice. Because admitting we failed meant admitting I failed.

Instead, what comes out is: "Yes! Yes, of course. Dean and I will be there."

"Oh, thank goodness." Her relief is palpable. "Your father was worried with that big ranch of his, Dean might not be able to get away. Taylor will be so happy. She always did adore him."

Everyone did. That was part of the problem. Dean McAllister, the perfect boyfriend, the man everyone in my family thought I'd marry. The man I ran from because—because why? The memories flood back: our last fight, boxes being packed, me choosing New York over Colorado, over him.

"Is everything okay, honey? You sound strange."

"Just tired." I force brightness into my voice. "Long day at work."

"Well, don't work too hard. Dean always says you push yourself too much."

Dean doesn't say anything about me anymore. He hasn't in two years. But she doesn't know that.

"Right, well, I should get back to this presentation." I need to end this call before I hyperventilate. "Tell Dad I said hi."

"Don't forget to email me your flight details, and Dean's if he's coming separately. Oh, and remember it's Hawaii, so pack light dresses. Though I'm sure Dean loves you in anything."

"Bye, Mom." I hang up before she can say anything else about the man who no longer loves me in anything.

The office is quiet around me, most of my coworkers long gone. The weight of what I've just done—the lie I've just doubled down on—presses against my chest. For two years, I've managed to dodge family gatherings, making excuses about work and Dean's ranch obligations. I've vaguely mentioned Dean in conversations, letting my family assume we're still together. It was easier than explaining why I really left Colorado, easier than admitting I ran from the one relationship that ever meant something.

And now I've trapped myself. In eighteen days, I'm supposed to show up in Hawaii with the ex-boyfriend I haven't spoken to since I walked out of his life.

My hands aren't actually shaking, but they should be. I minimize my presentation and open my personal email, typing "Dean McAllister" into the search bar. Our last exchanges appear—logistical details about the stuff I left behind, terse and formal. Nothing for almost two years now.

I pull up Instagram instead and type his name. His profile hasn't been updated in months. The last photo shows him on his ranch, a golden retriever at his side, mountains in the background. His face is partially shadowed by his cowboy hat, but I can still see the strong line of his jaw, the slight curl of his lips that never quite becomes a full smile for photos.

He looks good. He looks like he's moved on.

I close the app and drop my head into my hands. How am I supposed to convince this man—this proud, stubborn rancher who I left behind—to pretend we're still together for my sister's week-long destination wedding?

My stomach churns with an uncomfortable heat that I recognize as guilt. Guilt for lying to my family. Guilt for running from Dean. Guilt for the mess I've created that's finally caught up to me.

I need to call him. Right now, before I lose my nerve.

I pick up my phone again, my thumb hovering over his name in my contacts. I never deleted it. I told myself it was practical—in case I needed to reach him about mail or forgotten belongings—but the truth is, I couldn't make myself erase that final connection.

Before I can overthink it further, I press call. Each ring feels like an eternity, each second stretching my nerves tighter.

What will I say? Hey, Dean, I know I broke your heart and we haven't spoken in two years, but want to pretend we're still madly in love so I don't have to admit to my family that I've been lying this whole time?

The ringing stops.

"Brooke?"

His voice. Deep and slightly rough, with that hint of surprise that tells me he never expected to hear from me again. Just one word—my name—and I'm back in Colorado, back in his arms, back in the life I ran from.

My throat closes. The words don't come.

"Brooke? You there?"

I need to speak. I need to ask the impossible.

"Dean," I finally manage, my voice barely a whisper in the empty office. "I need your help.”